


In a Cold, Unfamiliar Universe

by Naughty_Vulcan



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Scene, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, Kirk POV, Missing Scene, New Vulcan, Pon Farr, References to the Destruction of Vulcan, Sarek is trying to be a good dad, Spock Prime POV, Spock Prime ships Spirk, Star Trek Beyond, This is really sad, Vulcan Biology, but not the sexy kind, he's definitely not perfect but he is making an effort, there's a blink and you miss it mention of spock/uhura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26412400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Vulcan/pseuds/Naughty_Vulcan
Summary: Spock Prime dies in 2263 of an unsatisfied pon farr. Instead of sending random ambassadors to relay that fact, Sarek chooses to personally deliver the news to his son.
Relationships: Referenced James T. Kirk Prime/Spock Prime, Sarek & Spock, possible future James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	In a Cold, Unfamiliar Universe

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of this fic is an alternate version of the scene in Star Trek Beyond where Spock learns Spock Prime has died, now including Spock's dad, and a small audience of senior officers. The second half is a flashback detailing how Spock Prime died. 
> 
> (Edit 1/24/2021: So I rewatched Star Trek Beyond and I went back and revised this fic to remove continuity and grammatical errors and I accidentally made it twice as long and imo twice as heartwrenching in the process. You're welcome??? Also Sarek is significantly nicer.)

No one from the _Enterprise_ crew, James T. Kirk included, expected to run into Spock’s father in Yorktown. But it appeared he’d come in person to deliver some rather important news. Because as soon as the _Enterprise_ docked, he was waiting for its crew just outside the docking bay. And then, as the personnel in various uniforms of red, yellow and blue filed past, and mingled with the even more varied crowd on the street, he made an unusual announcement.

“I wish to speak with the senior officers of this ship.”

Kirk, Scotty, Bones, and Spock all came to a stop on the bright, clean sidewalk immediately. And Kirk halfway expected Uhura to hang back too, at Spock’s side, even though she wasn’t as highly ranked as the other senior officers. As Spock’s girlfriend, she would probably want to hear this too. But to Kirk’s surprise, she didn’t so much as spare Spock a backward glance as she walked away, getting lost in the Yorktown crowd.

_I guess they’re on the outs again?_ Kirk thought. Last time he’d checked they were closer than ever. But it was hard to keep track. Those two kept breaking up and getting back together like continental drift, only much, _much_ faster. And it was giving Kirk whiplash trying to keep up. 

“Ambassador Sarek, we weren’t expecting to see you,” Kirk said as cordially as he could, squinting through the bright artificial sunlight of the starbase at the older Vulcan. “To what do we owe this… uh… honor?”

Kirk wasn’t sure he would _actually_ count it as an honor. The last time he’d seen Spock’s dad, he’d been emotionally compromising his son. By insulting Spock’s mother. Who also happened to be Sarek’s late wife.

_Ouch._

But Kirk wasn’t about to let bad first impressions keep him from being polite. He tried to smile; to be friendly. But as soon as he did, he was immediately unsure if that was the right response. Vulcans very rarely showed emotion, but somehow Sarek looked particularly… _grave_?

_Uh oh._

“I do not know that it _is_ an honor, Captain. It is a set of rather peculiar and tragic circumstances which bring me here today,” Sarek began cryptically. “One who is not my son, and yet also is my son, is no longer with us.”

It took everyone a minute to process that.

“Ye’ mean Ambassador Spock is dead, sir?” Scotty asked reluctantly.

Spock stiffened. But said nothing.

Then Sarek, to everyone’s horror, nodded slightly. “He expired yesterday. I would have sent a communication at the time, except that these are unusual circumstances, and not only did the Ambassdor not want there to be any record of this, but I also wished to deliver the news and his personal affects in person.”

Sarek reached into his robes and withdrew a box. It was silver, and about the size of a briefcase. Emblazoned on the front were the words "PROPERTY OF AMBASSADOR SPOCK" and the Federation logo. 

Sarek held the box out toward Spock. Spock took it with grace. But despite his overall placid demeanor, and his laudable attempt to keep his emotions under control, Kirk swore Spock was overcome with feelings as his fingers secured their grip on it.

Bones would have called him crazy if Kirk brought it up—to the casual observer Spock looked as emotionless and unperturbed as any other Vulcan. But almost five years of living together in close quarters made Kirk swear he could read Spock's mind sometimes. There was something about his eyes that gave it away.

And right now, those eyes were telling a complicated story. A story of grief, pain, and confusion.

_Well, no duh,_ Kirk thought. _It isn’t every day that you get to live through your own death. That’s gotta be messing with his head._

“How did he die?” Kirk asked suddenly. Then, realizing he may have overstepped, he added. “You know, if that’s not inappropriate to ask.”

“His body was the equivalent of one-hundred-sixty-two earth years of age,” Sarek stated matter-of-factly. 

Vulcans claimed they didn’t lie. And Kirk suspected Sarek probably wasn’t _technically_ lying. But the older Vulcan clearly wanted Kirk to make an assumption, based on his words. An incorrect assumption that Sarek simply wouldn’t challenge.

Luckily, since he had a Vulcan science officer, Kirk wasn’t ignorant enough to fall for it.  
  
"Isn't that a little young for a Vulcan?" Kirk asked. "I thought they regularly lived past two-hundred."  
  
"Generally, yes," Bones said. "However, Spock is half-human, so perhaps..."  
  
"It was not his human heritage that caused him to perish," Sarek announced suddenly.

Scotty narrowed his eyes at Sarek, evidently perplexed at his need to specify this, when he was being so cagey about it otherwise. But Kirk thought he understood. Most of the remaining Vulcans in the galaxy respected Spock, but there was a loud minority who took issue with his human heritage. And Sarek obviously didn’t want to add any more salt to that wound by letting the assumption that his human side had anything to do with his death.

"Are you saying he died of something Vulcan?" Kirk asked, leaning closer.  
  
"That is correct," Sarek confirmed.  
  
"A Vulcan disease?" Kirk probed further.  
  
Sarek's lips tightened. "We do not speak of it."  
  
Kirk leaned back, feeling miffed. _Damn Vulcans and their damn secrecy about everything_.

But at the same time Kirk’s arms crossed in frustration, Spock stiffened like a spooked cat, and his eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. Despite the oblique nature of his father’s words, he seemed to know _exactly_ what Sarek was talking about.

“Then my time will come,” Spock murmured, almost to himself.

Sarek shot Spock a disapproving look. Almost like Spock had said too much in mixed company. But Spock did not further elaborate. And Kirk thought his comment was sufficiently cryptic.

_His time? What the hell is Spock talking about?_

Kirk was itching to ask. The mystery was extremely enticing. But the uncomfortable looks Sarek and Spock were shooting each other over it and at the crowd milling around in the distance made him back off. Kirk really didn't want to get on Spock's bad side again, even if he was reasonably certain this time Spock wouldn't strangle him for speaking out of turn.

He greatly valued the friendship they'd managed to cultivate over the last five years. Their Thursday chess matches were the highlight of his week. And he wasn't about to screw it all up because of a little, useless curiosity.

So instead, when Spock’s eyebrows settled down again, Kirk diplomatically changed the subject. "Will you be staying in Yorktown for long, Ambassador? I know these aren't exactly... _ideal_ circumstances," he allowed, which was putting it lightly. "But we're all on leave at the moment while the ship undergoes some routine maintenance, so if you and Spock wanted to catch up, I'm sure we could arrange something." 

As soon as he said it, Kirk was certain he’d made another spectacular social blunder. Spock, still awkwardly clutching the box Sarek had given him, looked uncertain at the notion of being alone with his father.

Kirk frowned. He knew Spock’s relationship with his father had been strained when the former left for Starfleet—Spock had told him that story himself during one of their chess matches. But Kirk had also heard through the grapevine that Spock and Sarek had reconciled somewhat after the incident with Nero. And Kirk thought, looking into Sarek’s eyes, that the older Vulcan sincerely wanted to have a better and closer relationship with his son—provided Kirk wasn’t just making this all up. But there seemed to be layers and layers of Vulcan customs and old grievances getting in the way. 

And the Federation, apparently. 

"I appreciate the offer, Captain," Sarek replied cordially. "And I wish that I could accept," he added, giving Spock a look that could almost be described as remorseful, before turning back to Kirk. “Unfortunately, I cannot stay. My duties as an ambassador require me elsewhere.”

"So soon?" Kirk asked, genuinely shocked.

He wasn't sure how long Sarek had already been in Yorktown before they arrived. But he got the impression it wasn't long. Sarek didn’t have an entourage with him. And even on friendly planets, Federation ambassadors rarely went far without escorts.

Sarek nodded. "As a result of the Federation's rapid expansion these past five years, I have been very busy. It was almost prohibitively difficult to arrange even this, brief meeting."

Scotty whistled—a sound of sympathetic commiseration. “They sure like workin’ us to the bone, don’t they?”

“Indeed,” Sarek agreed. “Nevertheless, I deemed it imperative to make an appearance.”

“Because my elder counterpart would have wished it?” Spock asked.

“Because I wished to see my son,” Sarek explained.

Spock’s eyebrows lifted for a second, before he swiftly recovered. “I am grateful that you came.”

Kirk was surprised at how genuine Spock sounded. But this whole ordeal was clearly taking its toll on him. His fingers were white from gripping the box in his hands so tightly. And his voice was so borderline emotional that Scotty and Bones shared alarmed looks.

Mercifully, Sarek neglected to comment on his son’s emotionalism. “Of course,” he replied simply. “Should you require anything, you may reach me by subspace message. Despite the rigorous obligations of my position, I always have time for you, Spock.”

If Kirk didn’t know better, he’d say Spock looked like he was about to burst into tears. Again, he doubted anyone else would notice. But at the very least, Kirk was certain Spock was… moved.

“I will contact you again in four days,” Spock managed to say in an even tone. 

Kirk wasn’t sure what was so significant about that particular number. But Sarek nodded like this made perfect sense to him. Then, turning toward the rest of the senior officers, he said, “Now if you will excuse me, I must take my leave.”

“Of course,” Kirk acknowledged.

Sarek’s eyes flicked back to Spock again. Then he raised a Vulcan salute toward his son, which Spock copied.

“Peace and long life, Spock,” Sarek intoned.

“Live long and prosper, father,” Spock replied.

Sarek really didn’t seem like he wanted to go. But apparently unable to spare another second, Sarek turned abruptly and began swiftly walking away. As Kirk watched him recede into the distance, his long, billowy Vulcan robes fluttering around him in the artificial breeze, he felt a strange sense of emptiness settle in the pit of his stomach.

It was nice that Spock and Sarek seemed to be mending things between them. But the circumstances facilitating that couldn’t have been worse. The galaxy had lost a great man when the older Spock had died. And thanks to Sarek’s cryptic words earlier, Kirk couldn’t shake the feeling that he was gone too soon. 

…

_The Previous Day_

The sun beat down on the surface of New Vulcan. It was a pleasant planet, by Vulcan standards. The air was only ten percent more humid on average than Vulcan had been. At 1.2 times the gravity of Earth it felt reasonably familiar, though still a bit light. And it was not freezing, like the icecaps of Andoria, or the colder portions of Earth.

But Spock, despite having lived here for five years now, could not call it home. An average annual temperature of thirty-five degrees Celsius meant it was always slightly chilly, no matter the season—after all, Vulcan’s average annual temperature had been _forty_ -five degrees Celsius. And while the landscapes of jagged red rocks were beautiful, they were not the comforting shapes Spock recalled from his childhood.

Spock sighed as he sat on the back porch of his dwelling on the colony planet. He had contributed a lot to the restoration and preservation efforts during his time here. But no amount of diligent efforts could replace what had been lost. Not truly. And in this moment, Spock almost felt like he would have preferred a totally dissimilar planet, rather than one that mocked him endlessly with its near approximation of what once was.

Almost.

Spock knew that the familiarity of his current surroundings comforted most of the inhabitants of the colony. Especially the younger generation who had been either born here, or too young to really understand what had been lost when the tragedy had occurred. But to him, the closeness of the environment—the _not quite_ Vulcan-ness of it all—chafed at his psyche like sandpaper.

He kept his rooms heated to fifty degrees Celsius, and kept the windows shut to try and forget. But as soon as he stepped outside, the reminders were everywhere. The unfamiliar stars arrayed in the night sky. The strange brown rocks dotting the landscape. The buzzing turquoise insects native to this world flitting through the air. The slightly more frequent incidence of clouds and rain. The weird alien plants. The garish yellow sun.

The slight changes had worn down on him so much that Spock had completely forgotten that there was one aspect of Vulcan biology which had _not_ been affected by the loss of their home planet. At least, he had forgotten until it was too late.

Spock had known his health—both physical and mental—was deteriorating for some time. But he had not suspected its true cause for weeks. Instead, he had written off the symptoms as the result of his unfamiliar environment, the pain his failure to save his home planet still caused him, and advanced age.

The uncharacteristic moodiness he had assumed was a result of the fact that the fifth anniversary of the tragedy was fast approaching. The loss of appetite he had attributed to his worsening depression. The increasing irritation he felt towards his acquaintances on the Vulcan High Council he had considered to be a side-effect of poor sleep, brought on by the freezing nights. And the stray thoughts of his long-dead mate that plagued him from time to time, he dismissed as merely hopeless fantasies brought on by desperation and despair.

Even the titular “blood fever” had escaped his notice for several days. After all, how was Spock supposed to tell he was burning hotter than usual when he always, _always_ felt cold?

But as the too-yellow sun rose higher in the sky that morning, Spock was forced to admit that his symptoms were not the result of grief. At least not _only_.

His fever, which had been gradually heating up over the last week, had spiked very suddenly while Spock had been attempting to force himself to eat breakfast. And as the fire leapt in his veins, his spoon clattered to the counter.

Horrified realization spread through Spock. There was no other known ailment which produced fevers that hot in Vulcans. And it did not take long for him to realize he had been ignoring the other symptoms.

Nor did it take long before new symptoms began to plague him, too. A painful erection sprang up between his legs a few minutes later—thick and throbbing with need. It was followed by a surge of adrenaline in his veins, making him restless and itching to do something violent. And soon after that, Spock began to feel an unpleasant tingle in the telepathically-sensitive tips of his fingers, accompanied by an empty ache in the portion of his brain where his mind-link to his bondmate was supposed to be.

But the fever was by far the worst symptom in Spock’s opinion. The fires of _plak tow_ made the chilly air outside even more unbearable than usual. And the tips of Spock’s fingers burned especially hot, aching to reach out and touch—to meld with the mind of another.

Pushing aside his un-eaten breakfast, Spock struggled through the pain and distracting bouts of lust to try and formulate a way to survive. For a moment, he considered making an emergency call to the nearest medical facility. Because so many Vulcans had lost their mates in the tragedy, and had been unable to secure suitable matches before the fires overcame them, to the further detriment of Vulcan’s already dwindling population, each hospital now staffed a sizeable number of volunteers who were willing to be bonded on short-notice, to Vulcan men in need.

It would not be difficult to arrange. Spock was well-respected enough for his efforts in rebuilding Vulcan society that there would be no shortage of willing candidates to become his new mate. His preference for male partners could even be taken into account. And the bond they would forge during their time together did not have to be permanent. Assuming Spock survived, and they acted quickly, it could be dissolved relatively painlessly by a Vulcan mind-healer. 

But just as Spock’s trembling hands reached across the counter for the com panel built into the surface, he felt a sudden, powerful nausea at the idea of bonding with a random Vulcan. He attempted to ignore it—as distasteful as the idea of mating with a stranger was, it was his best shot at survival. However, the feeling would not allow itself to be brushed aside so easily.

As Spock’s fingers burned and twitched spasmodically over the com controls, physically unable to perform the actions necessary to get him in touch with a healer, he was confused by his own reaction. Reluctance was illogical when the alternative was _death._ But just as Spock fought past his own biology’s strange rebellion, and managed to activate the com panel, the ache in the bonding-center of his brain intensified, and suddenly, he was sure of the cause of his reluctance.

Spock’s biology was rejecting the idea of seeking out a new mate because for some unknown reason it believed he already had one.

Stunned, Spock reached up and caressed his temple. The sensation of his mind calling out for its mate was somewhat familiar, as Spock had been bonded before. In what felt like another lifetime, Spock had endured many _pon farr_ cycles with the assistance of James T. Kirk—his _t’hy’la_ and one true love. But that Jim was now gone—long dead in a faraway parallel timeline. And Spock had assumed their bond had withered with his passing, never to be felt again.

Apparently, he had been mistaken.

Now that Spock had returned to a universe in which James T. Kirk was alive, and had mind-melded with him, their bond had apparently rematerialized—on his end, at least. And now, in the peak of the blood fever, it was aching to be completed. To be _consummated._

Overcome with shock and horror at himself for allowing this to happen, Spock staggered away from the com panel, out of the kitchen entirely, and into his living room where he struggled to figure out how this had occurred. He had known, when he melded with this universe’s younger, blue-eyed version of his late husband, that it was risky. He was emotionally compromised and with his telepathic centers still reeling from the shock of the loss of billions, of course his mind would instinctively want to forge new bonds.

But Spock had thought he had been careful. And he had hoped, at the time, that the differences between their life experiences would be great enough to render this universe’s Kirk an entirely new individual. That his own biology would understand this was not his long-lost mate, but someone else completely.

Unluckily, this was not the case. Spock’s traitorous body, apparently, could not tell the difference. James T. Kirk was James T. Kirk, no matter what universe they were in. And now that their bond was restored, Spock knew no other mind would satisfy him. No other type of bond could compete with the strength of a _t’hy’la_ bond, after all.

For a fleeting moment, as fire roared in Spock’s blood, and his penis throbbed, Spock felt a powerful urge to break into a run to the nearest space port, board a ship—any ship—and pilot it aimlessly toward the pull he felt in the center of his being. But with the last shreds of willpower he possessed, he clamped down on the urge. And fought to bury it deep inside. 

Even if he could find the Jim Kirk of this universe in time—which was unlikely, as New Vulcan was hardly situated in the center of the Federation, and the famous starship captain could be anywhere—Spock could not allow himself to give in to his instincts. This Jim was not his. Like New Vulcan, this universe’s Jim was nothing but a cruel facsimile—an imitation so close, but just not quite the same as what Spock had known. And he did not want to rely on him to survive.

More importantly, making a sudden, lust-driven appearance, would no doubt confuse and frighten the young Kirk, who knew nothing of Spock’s relationship with the other version of him. The risk of harming the young man was also high—Spock feared his primal instincts would not respond well to the sound rejection he was almost certain to receive. And chiefest of all concerns, if Spock somehow managed, against all odds, to reach Kirk and to get him to agree to mate with him, he could not do it. Because that would deprive his younger counterpart of the opportunity to have the joy he had once had. And Spock refused to take the mate his younger counterpart deserved.

So, realizing there was no other option, Spock sank into a lotus-position on the floor of his living room, and tried to meditate the flames of the _plak tow_ away. But though the practices Spock had learned during his training with the Masters of Gol had helped him survive the years after Jim’s passing in his own universe, it appeared that those techniques would not work in a universe where Jim still lived.

Every time Spock tried to center his focus, his mind would cry out—reaching across the stars for the copy of the man he loved. It shattered his concentration completely. And shook him to the core. But the mating bond between him and the Jim in this universe was only one-way. So his only answer was silence.

Empty. Aching. Silence. 

It was painful, beyond belief. Spock felt like he’d been speared in the side. His heart throbbed. His old bones creaked. His breath had turned shallow. And his lungs felt heavy and constricted.

He kept trying to meditate anyway—it was, after all, his only chance for survival at this point. But after several hours of fruitless attempts to control his mind, Spock spiraled helplessly into madness. The careful constructs of logic he normally relied on melted out of his mind, burned away by the heat. And at the same time, his tongue got stuck in his throat, making him unable to speak.

Fearing he might become a danger to others soon, and realizing it was hopeless, Spock quickly locked himself inside his home. He disabled all the overrides, should anyone hear his dying throes and attempt to come to his aid. Then he crawled into his room and resolved to die.

He tried turning up the heat to make his last hours more comfortable. But his lips could not form the words that would order the computer to adjust the environmental controls, and his fingers were trembling too much to properly operate the thermostat manually. So Spock soon gave up. Then, taking shaky breaths, he lied back, on his bed. There, he interlaced his fingers over his chest. Closed his eyes. And waited for the fever to take him.

The process was slow and agonizing. Had he been slightly more rational, he might have thought of a clever way to bring an end to his suffering sooner. _Pon farr_ certainly was taking its sweet time to kill him. Spock’s internal chronometer had long since given up, but he knew he spent hours lying against the freezing sheets of his bed as the flames in his blood burned steadily hotter. But Spock was so far gone at that point that all he could do was lay back, writhing and gasping as his own biology betrayed him.

Eventually, the fever rose to such heights that it caused Spock to moan; the difference between his internal body temperature and the chilly bedroom too severe to be anything but painful. And then, while his erection throbbed with such force he feared it would burst if he even grazed it, and the tips of his fingers felt like they were melting, the synapses of his brain began to fry.

It was excruciating. Spock thrashed and screamed as his body began rapidly breaking down. His heart was hammering arrhythmically in his chest. His breath came short and rough. His mind was decaying… dissolving… disappearing.

As Spock died, he focused on the image in his mind of _his_ Jim—dark blonde hair shot through with streaks of gray and hazel eyes instead of his younger, golden-haired, blue-eyed doppelganger. And as he took in his final breaths, he hoped—even though he knew it was illogical to do so—that perhaps they might be finally reunited in death. His _katra_ ached at the thought for his last seconds. Then, taking one last, shuddering breath, Spock fell back and went limp.

He was dead, far too soon, taken by the fever. And if that wasn’t enough of an injustice, he had died all alone, in a cold, unfamiliar universe.


End file.
